


Mine Own

by besanii



Series: Boy Mine [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Mirrors, Older Grantaire, Virgin Enjolras, Younger Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besanii/pseuds/besanii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is my personal opinion that one cannot fully appreciate a bearskin rug unless it is with bare feet," Grantaire explains.  "How do you find it?"</p><p>"Soft," Enjolras says, luxuriating in the furs tickling his soles.  He smiles, stepping closer to Grantaire, and rests his hands on his broad shoulders.  "I would be quite content to sleep here every night."</p><p>"What, and put such a magnificent bed to waste!" Grantaire exclaims, springing to his feet.  He slips an arm about Enjolras’ waist and draws him close so Enjolras can feel the hardness in his trousers.  "Come, boy mine, I have another gift for you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahyyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/gifts), [defractum (nyargles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/gifts).



> The long-awaited sequel to [Boy Mine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1167749). Sorry it took so long! I was really tired of staring at it in Google docs, so I literally went "Okay, I give up, let's post this."
> 
> This was in response to [this gif prompt](http://besanii.tumblr.com/post/102268537313/did-i-already-send-this-one-ive-lost-track) that Cass sent me. A REALLY LONG TIME AGO. I am honestly ashamed of how long this took to write.

His new rooms are lavishly furnished with draperies and rugs in rich burgundy, warm and sensual.  It renders his previous quarters almost spartan in comparison and he allows Grantaire to lead him by the hand until they are stood on the bearskin rug by the fireplace.

"Well, master Enjolras, what is the verdict on your new quarters?" the prince regent asks.  His arm sweeps in a wide arc to encompass the entire chamber.  "Is it to your satisfaction?"

He allows Enjolras to explore his new abode, his eyes trained upon the boy as he wanders over to inspect the curtains.  They are heavy and newly dusted for the winter, and Enjolras shivers at the memory of his hands tangled in similar draperies in the dark.  Desire curls in his belly.  He strokes the lush fabric once, a long, lingering touch, and turns away.

"It is," he replies with a ready smile.  "I like it very much, your highness.  You are much too kind."

Grantaire reaches a hand for him and he takes it without hesitation, allowing himself to be drawn back to the bearskins.  In his inspection of the draperies, he has failed to notice the nakedness of Grantaire’s feet until now, his toes digging into the soft rug with each shift.  Grantaire smiles wickedly and sinks to his knees.

Enjolras protests, horrified at the thought of the prince regent kneeling before one such as himself, until large hands lift his foot from the ground.  He watches, wide-eyed and breathless, as Grantaire carefully removes each slipper and places them by the fire, before reaching for his stockings.  He unclips them and slides the soft material down past his calf and foot until it is left bare, and sets each foot back on the rug ever so gently.

"It is my personal opinion that one cannot fully appreciate a bearskin rug unless it is with bare feet," Grantaire explains.  "How do you find it?"

"Soft," Enjolras says, luxuriating in the furs tickling his soles.  He smiles, stepping closer to Grantaire, and rests his hands on his broad shoulders.  "I would be quite content to sleep here every night."

"What, and put such a magnificent bed to waste!" Grantaire exclaims, springing to his feet.  He slips an arm about Enjolras’ waist and draws him close so Enjolras can feel the hardness in his trousers.  "Come, boy mine, I have another gift for you."

He guides Enjolras to the bedside, where a curious object has been covered by a length of cloth.  It is taller than Enjolras by almost a head and twice as wide, and he lays a tentative hand upon it to find a cold, smooth surface beneath the thin cloth.  At Grantaire’s behest, he unveils the object and comes face to face with his own reflection.

"A mirror?" he asks, turning to Grantaire.  "I have never seen so large a mirror before now – not even in my mother’s chambers, and she is as vain a woman as you will find–"

"I had it commissioned especially for this room," Grantaire says.  The hand at Enjolras’ hip is stroking idly as he speaks.  "I had the craftsman add the final touches in time for today."

Enjolras’ eyes are drawn to the frame, burnished bright, following the masterfully wrought iron with gentle touches until he sees it.  There, nestled amongst the gleaming vines and leaves, lies an embellished _R_ , the arms of which are entwined with another initial: _E_.  His heart swells and he sees Grantaire shift in the mirror until he is standing behind him, strong arms snaking around to his torso and holding him fast.

"Do you like it?" Grantaire murmurs in his ear.  His hands toy with the lacings of Enjolras’ leggings as he noses his jaw, breathing deeply his scent.  It feels as if the air has thinned and the strength in Enjolras’ legs waver.  "It is only fitting that the master of this room should leave a mark on its prized possession."

"It is wonderful," Enjolras sighs.  His head tilts back to accommodate the now wandering mouth, although his hands move to still Grantaire’s at his hips.  "Is it not a trifle early, my lord?"

Grantaire’s smile tickles his neck.

"It is never too early, boy mine."  His hands resume their explorations, unfastening the laces of soft leggings with torturously slow movements.  "With no one and nothing requiring our immediate attention but this, there is no better time."

His nose traces the line of Enjolras’ jaw, tilting his head back with soft, insistent presses, and Enjolras obliges.  His own hands reach up to tangle in the thick hair at Grantaire’s nape as their lips meet and he allows himself to be distracted from wandering hands now pushing the leggings from his hips.  They part so that he can step from the tangle of clothing at his feet, but he is halted when he moves to turn in Grantaire’s embrace.

"My lord?"

"Like this," Grantaire breathes, his eyes trained ahead.  He holds Enjolras before the mirror.  "I would have you like this."

“Like this, my lord?" Enjolras questions, feeling heat rise to his cheeks with shame and arousal.

He struggles with only half the heart to do so; his body thrills at the sight of Grantaire’s large hands splayed across his abdomen, dark against the crisp white of his shirt.  His legs are bare, a sight he finds altogether too intimate in the light of day, and the collar of his shirt is loosened to reveal the slope of his shoulders.  He sees all of this reflected in the mirror before him, sees the reverence in Grantaire’s eyes as he trails his lips along Enjolras’ neck.

"I would have you like this," Grantaire repeats, slipping his hands beneath the hem of Enjolras’ shirt, "so that you may also see how enthralling you are in the throes of passion."

His hand finds its mark, and Enjolras’ knees buckle under the surge of sudden pleasure when he feels a warm hand encircle his member.  He falls forward with a gasp, and Grantaire follows the motion, stepping forward until Enjolras is braced against the mirror.  The burnished metal beneath his fingers is cold to the touch, but it is difficult to pay mind to it when all space between their bodies have been eliminated.

“ _Ahh_ – would you take your pleasure – _ah_ , as you did last night, my lord?” Enjolras asks.  He trembles and gasps when his hardness is engulfed by a firm hand.  ” _Ah_ – _Grantaire_.”

His hips move of their own accord, rolling endlessly into the warmth surrounding it, although the hand about his torso restricts his movements.  It is the same fiery passion from the previous night, consuming him from one simple point of contact.  He gasps and whimpers even as his head is tilted back to meet Grantaire’s in a tangle of lips and tongue.

"I have something else in mind for us, boy mine," Grantaire whispers against his skin.  His voice, husky and low, sets every nerve in Enjolras’ body alight.  “If you will allow me.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras breathes. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

Grantaire’s lips curl into a wicked grin against his neck. His hand gives another firm stroke that leaves Enjolras gasping before he pulls away, leaving Enjolras trembling from the sudden chill. His grasp on the edges of the mirror tightens in anticipation, his breath painting soft clouds against the smooth glass. He dares not open his eyes to the sight of himself upon its surface and retains his position until a faint rustle alerts him to Grantaire’s return.

He hears two soft thuds as Grantaire removes his own trousers,  and the whisper of fabric falling to the ground follows.

“Lovely boy,” Grantaire murmurs. His body, powerful and firm, curls around Enjolras’ own and  Enjolras sighs against the cool glass, weak with desire. “Lovely, enchanting boy.”

“My lord…” His breath catches at the faintest brush of fingers along the crease of his buttocks. Another hand dances low across his hips to encircle his member once more. “Oh, _oh_.”

“Trust me, boy mine, and I will do my best to ease your discomfort.”

Enjolras acquiesces. The fingers return, tracing his rim. He shudders and turns his head to gather the sleeve of his shirt into his mouth to muffle the low moan. His cheeks burn but he cannot stop, his hips press more insistently into Grantaire’s sure touch, and then back against the fingers that press into him. A faint, floral scent floats on the edge of his senses; it grows stronger with the movement of Grantaire’s fingers against him, slick and warm against his skin.

His body yields to the caresses and his legs part to grant them greater access. Grantaire’s kisses trail across his shoulder, bared to the cool air as his shirt slides down, his touch steady and firm as it breaches his body.

A shudder tears through Enjolras at the intrusion, but it is slow and leisurely, drawing such sounds from his lips as to make a virgin blush with the wantonness of its nature. It is easier to accept the digits then, until he welcomes it eagerly – yearns for more – and a low cry escapes him when Grantaire returns with another. The touch is deeper now, Grantaire’s caresses quickening with every whimpered plea. Enjolras’ knees weaken. His own fingers scramble against the mirror for purchase as his hips roll back into Grantaire’s touch, moving with the single-minded need for _more_.

His climax breaks upon him like waves over rock and he is anchored only by the strength of Grantaire’s arm about his waist, beneath his shirt. There are lips at his ear, mouthing heatedly against the soft skin, and Grantaire’s voice is a low, constant hum that washes over him as he floats, light-headed. His breath hitches when the fingers slip from his body.

“Hush, hush, boy mine,” Grantaire murmurs. “I have you.”

“My lord–”

“You are _magnificent_.” Enjolras allows his head to be turned and meets Grantaire’s lips fervently. “Truly. So beautiful, the very image of perfection.”

He presses tender kisses along Enjolras’ jawline, guiding him backwards with steady hands. Enjolras follows, limbs heavy and languid, and glimpses the visage of himself in the mirror. A red flush spreads across his chest, painting a stark contrast to the milky expanse of skin visible beneath the billowing hem of his shirt. There is a dampness along his thigh, a feeling he recalls vividly, and with a twinge in his belly he sees the same dampness sliding thick and pale along the polished surface of the mirror.

Grantaire leads him to the bed and falls upon it himself, drawing Enjolras to him. The hands at his hips caress and stroke the soft mounds of his buttocks until he shifts. He is lifted, then, guided forward until he sits astride Grantaire, their bare thighs pressed tightly together, and his shirt is pulled away. The room is cold, his arms prickle with gooseflesh, but his body and face burns under the intensity of Grantaire’s scrutiny.

“You must surely have been made in the image of Adonis himself,” Grantaire breathes. His hands map the line of Enjolras’ hip, the gentle curve of his buttocks, the dip of his back. “A godling sat astride his noble steed.”

His laughter rumbles deep in his chest as Enjolras’ brow furrows, teeth catching on his bottom lip, tender and swollen with kisses. It makes for a bewitching picture.

“Does such vulgarity discomfort you, boy mine?” His fingertip trace the outline of Enjolras’ chest, drawing forth a soft whine. “Is it so shameful to want? To desire?”

Enjolras shakes his head and bites his lip. Grantaire surges up with a groan and Enjolras finds his mouth captured. They are pressed so close as to be aligned completely, chest to chest. Grantaire’s hips are cradled in the warmth between Enjolras’ thighs and a jolt of lust, dark and heady, ignites in his loins. Grantaire’s hands return to the crease of his buttocks.

“Tell me, my Adonis,” he breathes, burning the words into the pale neck beneath his lips. “Will you mount your steed? Will you give yourself to me, and allow me to show you what pleasure your body is truly capable of?”

“My lord,” Enjolras gasps, bright eyes fluttering shut as the fingers slide back into him. “Oh... _oh_...I want – _ah!_ – please, please, _please_ , my lord–!”

“Do you give your consent, boy?” Grantaire asks, his fingers retaining their steady rhythm. Enjolras’ head nods his frantic acceptance, but it sways him not. He puts the question to him once more. “Speak, Enjolras.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Enjolras cries. His fingers knot themselves in the folds of Grantaire’s shirt beneath him, to better aid his movements. “ _Yes_.”

The wicked grin returns to Grantaire’s lips.

“Very well.” He takes Enjolras’ hands, dainty and pale, in his remaining one, and brings them to his lips with a gentle caress that belies the fire in his eyes. “I shall do as my fair Adonis commands.”

There is a crystal bottle lying forgotten in the bedsheets, delicate in shape and dainty in its appearance, and Enjolras regards it from beneath heavy lids as its contents are spread across Grantaire’s fingers. The distinct floral scent is one he recognises – not from its earlier usage, which lingers upon his body still – but hazily in his memory of dark libraries and heavy, silken fabrics sliding against his skin. He is engulfed in the scent as Grantaire spreads it along his own impressive length.

Consciousness of self had never been a state familiar to Enjolras until Grantaire. Even now, after having been intimate with the prince regent in a way above all others, the sight of the proud member in Grantaire’s grasp is enough to kindle fire in Enjolras’ cheeks. He is all at once too aware of his inexperience.

“Is something the matter, boy mine?” Grantaire asks. He halts his ministrations at the look of uncertainty that flits over Enjolras’ features. “Are you well?”

“I am, my lord,” Enjolras assures him. “I am just...I have never–”

Grantaire surges forward until their faces are a breath apart and Enjolras is nestled upon Grantaire’s thighs, their members brushing. The contact sends thrills of pleasure along his nerves and curls within his belly, leaving him breathless. He turns his face to nuzzle kisses along the strong jaw and savours the now familiar sting of coarse hairs against his lips.

“I will never hurt you,” Grantaire says. His hands frame Enjolras’ hips. His eyes are earnest in their devotion and Enjolras’ chest lightens with it. “You are safe with me, Enjolras.”

Enjolras bends his head and places upon his lips a sweet kiss.

“I trust you, my lord,” he murmurs. He rests their brows together. “ _Grantaire_.”

His member swells once again under Grantaire’s attentions; the firm fingers that dance across its length and toy at his entrance leave him aching with desire. Their brows remain pressed tight, breathing as one and Grantaire searches for any sign of discomfort upon his countenance. Finding none now that the worst of Enjolras’ fears have been alleviated, Grantaire captures his lips in a short, fierce kiss and positions them with care.

Enjolras knows but little of the act of lovemaking; in his youth he has witnessed it between man and woman – stolen moments in empty stables, glimpsed at a distance. He has also known men to partake in such pleasures with each other, has heard servants and stable boys allude to such acts amongst themselves in secret, but had never sought them for his own. There had been no need, no want, no desire strong enough to tempt him.

But Grantaire is fire, igniting dark, lustful desires Enjolras had never thought himself capable of feeling. He breaches Enjolras’ body and Enjolras cleaves before his touch; the breath in his body catches sharply in his throat. It is an oddly pleasant feeling, having Grantaire’s girth within himself, and he feels as though he could weep from it. The pressure of fingers on his own length provides a distraction from the discomfort, but it is the warmth of the lips tracing his throat that aids his descent until he is seated, trembling and wanting, upon Grantaire.

“You are – _beautiful_ ,” Grantaire says lowly. He gazes upon Enjolras with wonderment in his dark eyes. Enjolras brings an unsteady hand to his lord’s brow and traces its line with a delicate finger. Grantaire turns his head to press a gentle kiss to his palm. “The most divine.”

“What – what do I – _ah_!”

His words are consumed by the cry that tears itself from his lips, an involuntary reaction to the sudden shock of pleasure that jolts through his body. He is met with a wicked grin as Grantaire repeats the motion, his hips driving deep within Enjolras in one smooth stroke. The strokes along his length cease as Grantaire’s hands slide along the narrow curve of his hip to guide his movements – upward as Grantaire withdraws, and down again, in a steady rhythm.

Enjolras’ breath leaves him in short, sharp gasps as he allows himself to be led in their coupling. It is easier to close his eyes and be consumed by Grantaire, to surrender himself wholeheartedly to Grantaire within him, surrounding him. Every shift in their bodies sparks a wave of sensation that has him reeling with pleasure and he can do naught but cling to the folds of Grantaire’s shirt between his fingers, Grantaire’s voice low in his ear.

“–you would allow me to have you like _this_ ,” he rasps, his words twisted within a groan that sends shivers along every nerve in Enjolras’ body. “You would allow me a glimpse at you in this state, divine Adonis – to pleasure you thus would surely become my sole purpose in this life–”

Enjolras inclines his head to silence him. It is only a subtle shift, but Grantaire’s next thrust strikes true and draws a sharp cry. It is as if a dam has burst forth, pleasure so intense floods his entire body and he finds himself shifting, searching. He abandons all pretence at bashful demurity in its favour; he traces his lips and tongue along the rough line of Grantaire’s jaw, and his hands draw Grantaire’s body close until they are but a breath apart.

“–please, please, _please_ , my lord – _oh_ ,” he gasps. The words fall from his lips, soft as rain on a summer's night, and Grantaire catches each with a tender touch from his own. "Please--"

Grantaire groans, as if Enjolras’ very words pained him. "Will you allow me to spend within you, fair Adonis, unworthy though I am?"

The words are tight in his throat, beneath Enjolras' tongue, and his arms tighten about Enjolras' hips. The laughter that bubbles forth is sudden and breathless, breathed against the line of Grantaire’s neck and pressed into the skin.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” he breathes. His next words are caught in a whimper as Grantaire continues to move within him. “Mark me...I am yours, please – _Grantaire_ –!”

The ache in his loins, in his member trapped between their bodies and staining the material of Grantaire’s shirt, clouds his senses. His body moves without conscious thought, driving itself upon Grantaire’s length; his breath mingles with Grantaire’s as their lips meet, and Grantaire devours his soft cries like a man starved.

Their coupling grows frenzied. There is a sharp, insistent tug below his navel and Enjolras chases the sensation, until he is bursting with it; falling, falling, his body trembling within the cradle of Grantaire’s embrace. His lips move wordlessly against Grantaire’s shoulder with every sobbing breath, spent and limp. Grantaire follows in short order, crushing Enjolras to his chest as he tenses, spending himself into Enjolras’ pliant, willing body with a drawn-out groan.

Enjolras’ head feels heavy, the toll of their exertions descending upon his conscious mind like a shroud, drawing his eyes closed. Grantaire’s heartbeat thrums beneath his ear, a constant, soothing beat that lulls him closer to sleep. There are lips against his temple, Grantaire’s voice murmuring sweet nothings, and then he is borne gently until he rests upon the rumpled sheets with the heat of Grantaire’s arms shielding him from the chill.

“How blessed this gift you have given me,” Grantaire murmurs. “Rest well, love of mine. Mine own.”

And Enjolras slumbers.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://besanii.tumblr.com/)


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